Just a Shell
by Kinelea
Summary: Very postRENT. There's been too much death already, what with practically all of their friends gone...and Roger's turn is coming up. He's only hanging on for Mark now...not slash. Mucho Roger angst. T for language...and depressing things. Please R and R.


**Just a Shell**

**A/N**: Argh, okay, so I have a lot of issues with this fic. I don't like the beginning...I don't really like the very ending...and I don't think I really did Mark justice until near the end. Roger's somewhat OOC...kind of understandable given the setting but...blergh. There's just something really wrong with this fic that really bugs me about it...aside from all the little picky things. There's a wrong feel. So maybe you guys can help me? I want to know so I can change and improve...since my friend and I can't seem to pinpoint what's wrong about this fic. So...please read and review, flames definitely welcome but at least make them constructive. I really do need help with this, so please, any help would be very welcome. And if you liked it (which I doubt will happen) feel free to tell me that too. But mostly...anything you can think of that will help fics the wrongness would be much appreciated. Thanks very much.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own RENT or Roger...it's all thanks to Jon.

It had finally happened. It wasn't like we weren't used to being dirt poor or anything, it felt pretty natural by now, actually. There was money in my pocket now but I didn't like the feeling. My hands felt too empty. I shoved them in my pockets to get rid of the feeling but it didn't really work. I didn't know whether I could keep up with this, it felt like I'd rather die than feel like this. There wasn't that comfortable weight in my hands anymore and it wouldn't be there again, since I'd never be able to afford another one. Stupid medicine…I should just stop taking it. Then at least I'd die with my guitar in my hands, as stupid as that sounds. But I won't die, not yet, not while Mark's still around. Or, at least, I'll keep taking the AZT so I can last longer for him. I don't even think I care anymore, truthfully, it feels like I do this just for him now. But I have to. I'm the last one left and if I leave him…then there will be no one. I'll have to face life without my guitar, without my music…at least I can still write lyrics in the spiral. Well…maybe.

Sighing, I shake my head as I start climbing the stairs. It's…weird being the last one. It's like I'm numb to everything now but Mark's pain and constant fear that I'm going to leave him alone. Sure there's still Joanne and Maureen but they've got their own life now and I know Mark doesn't want to be a burden on them. He's still too much of a good guy for that. Then again, I guess I can't say I'm numb when the fact that the Fender isn't in my hands or sitting somewhere in the loft is…hard to face. Not that I'm gonna cry or anything, it's just a guitar, right? Just a thing, my life's more important…well, to Mark. Then again, he's not going to be thrilled when I tell him. But what was I supposed to do? Let him sell his camera? No, he needs that and he'll need it even more when I'm gone.

I pull open the door to the loft and see Mark look up from something he was doing in the kitchen. "Where've you been?" He asks, absently, trying to keep things casual as he fiddles with the camera. He pretends it doesn't worry him when I go out, pretends like he doesn't think that every time I do I'm going to drop dead and he won't be there with me. I shrug, casually, walking over to the counter and pulling the wad of cash out of my pocket, placing it on the plastic surface before turning away. It's weird how little I actually am feeling now. Maybe I really am numb. As expected, Mark's confused by the money.

"Roger where did you get…" It will be about now that he's realizing I went out with the Fender and came back without it. I can hear him gasp and I think I'll retreat to my room and just play…oh wait, not an option anymore.

"You didn't do it." Well, obviously, I did. But the sarcastic retort never leaves my mouth, even as he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him, horrified and concerned for me. I just shrug again.

"No, Roger, we could have done something else. I could have…"

"…sold your camera?" I finish for him, the words tired and dead, almost unfeeling in their bluntness. It's seems that's the only way I can talk anymore, blunt, tired…dead. I shake my head. "No. It's my medicine, after all, why shouldn't I pay for it?" There's some of the old bitterness back, but it's to a lesser degree.

He looks at me helplessly. He can't argue with it but apparently it's tearing him apart that I won't be able to play anymore. I look at him for another moment, wondering if he'll actually say anything, before deciding that he won't and moving to my room. Like me nowadays, it seems empty. Not like it was ever really full of much before, but with Mimi gone…it's empty. It scares me that thinking about her barely causes a reaction anymore, just a dull ache that I'm too used to by now. Maybe it would be better if I died, since I can't seem to feel anymore. But there's Mark to consider, can't leave him alone after all. What kind of a friend would I be then? Considering all he's done for me, this is the least I can do for him.

I flop onto the bed, finding nothing to do with my hands. Usually I'd start randomly strumming the guitar…still not an option. So they fall uselessly to my sides and I stare dully at the wall. Now what will I do with my empty days?

Mark comes into the room and I look at him, still dull. He's got his camera and I feel a flicker of annoyance, though it barely shows. So he wants to film this? Well, I don't care enough to protest. I can hear him now, even before he starts talking…_June 4th, 6 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Roger's just sold his guitar so that we'll be able to afford his AZT…_Then the real Mark cuts off my line of thought and he's not narrating anything.

"Dammit, Roger." I blink and refocus on him, realizing I hadn't really been looking at him, zoning out as I commonly did. Guess it's a common occurrence when your body's numb and you don't care enough to do anything with your mind. I notice he's frustrated but desperate all at the same time. I wait patiently while he gathers himself and comes to sit beside me. He still hasn't turned the camera on. Maybe he just wants it for comfort.

"Yeah?" The non-committal reply leaves my mouth, the word falling dead and lifeless as I turn away from him to stare at the wall some more. He doesn't say anything for a few minutes and I wonder if he's even going to. He does though, eventually.

"If I got a job, another one, then we'd be able to get it back." It's quiet, almost searching, as though he expects me to approve or wants my opinion. I give him nothing but a shrug. It won't really matter anymore anyway. Chances are I'll be dead before his first paycheck. I haven't been feeling so great lately and when you've got my condition, that often proves fatal.

"Whatever you want." I finally say, still indecisive and non-committal. You'd think he'd have noticed by now that nothing seems to affect me, that I'm pretty much dead already even though I'm still walking around, still breathing. Then again, that's a little insensitive. He has noticed, I'm pretty sure, and his worried sigh tells me so. It's almost as though he'd rather I was always angry and snappish with him like I used to be. But that…that's just too much effort nowadays. Why be angry, after all? I'm going to die anyway, I've pretty much accepted it now, so I might as well savor the time I have…ha. What's the point? Everyone's gone. Angel, Collins, Mimi…just Mark left. Just Mark and I, like old times. Except this is nothing like old times because I'm dying and I'm going to leave him soon. That strikes enough pain in me, just enough to let me know I still can feel and it still keeps me fighting. Fighting for him. To Hell with glory and making something of my life, it's too late for that now; I'm too far gone. I hope I still have enough humanity left in me to be able to still treat him well, though I know I don't really. Sure, I don't hit him any more but I'm not really a friend either. I'm just kind of this dead lump that wanders around the loft…and I feel bad. Just like being angry though, anything but how I currently act is too much effort. Hopefully, before I actually leave him, I'll be able to tell him how grateful I am for everything he's done for me, that I wouldn't even be here anymore if it weren't for him. I owe him; I owe him my life so I gotta stay alive to repay that debt, as long as I can. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem like it's gonna be enough. Never enough…nothing I do will ever be enough to repay Mark for everything he's done for me. He saw me through April, withdrawal when I was an insufferable ass, saw me through Mimi's death, through Collins' death…which hurt him just as much at it hurt me, if not more. It would take more time than I have left in this short lifetime to repay him for all of that. It would take several lifetimes…and that's time I just don't have. I'd say I hated it…but hate is much too much effort, just like everything else. It's all just too much effort.

All this griping…all this complaining…life's too much effort. You think I'd just end it, right? But no. There's no way in Hell I'd do that. April did that to me…I know what it feels like…I wouldn't do it to Mark. Even if it feels like I want to die…I won't do that. I'll fight and scrap, claw and bite until the bitter end. For Mark's sake. Everything's for Mark's sake…but he needs me. He will be alone when I go…and I can't bear it. It's not like I think I'm all that important that his survival depends on me or anything…I'm not worth that much. But I am the last one…aside from Maureen and Joanne…and I don't know what's going to happen to him when I finally go. I…really don't like thinking about that. He needs people…he really does. And he's lost so many…Maureen, Angel, Mimi, Collins…and now me. Well, soon to be me. How is that fair? He's too good to deserve that…he's gotten more than his fair share of misery and loss…if I was still…well, myself, that would send me railing in bitterness and shouting at the sky and all that dramatic stuff. I'm not myself anymore though, haven't been since…well, since Mimi died, to be truthful. I started…retreating after that. Drawing in, going numb. Then Collins…it was too much. Now I'm getting sick…and so what? So what…except for Mark. It matters to him…and so it has to matter to me…

"Roger?"

I've spaced out again, thinking about all that shit, and his voice brings me back. It's kind of strained and I look at him. He's looking down at the camera, pained, trying to hide it. I may be sick, I may be numb and not care, but I still know my best friend. I still know when he's trying to hide something…and now's that time. Still…I don't say anything…just look at him, blinking slowly, waiting. Apparently numbness has made me more patient than I ever was before.

Minutes crawl by and still I wait while he fidgets. Finally, he takes a deep breath and gives a small shrug. "I don't know. You're not…you anymore." He looks up at me with those words…staring at me from behind those glasses, not bothering to try and hide his pain anymore.

I take a breath, hold that gaze, despite the fact that I really don't want to. Look, I'm a coward now too. All I seem able to do is sigh and nod, sad agreement. "I know, Mark." What else can I say? We both know it's true.

He grimaces and looks away again. I hate hurting him, I really do…and in that split second glance I can see all that he mourns of me. He remembers how I was before April…the cocky, sarcastic, prank pulling, fun loving rocker. He remembers who I was afterwards…more reserved, more depressed…but still me, still with the anger and bitterness…still with the willingness to tease and have fun. He remembers who I was with Mimi…brought back to life, laughing more, singing more, writing more…almost reborn. When he looks at me…what does he see? A shell of all that? Sometimes, it's like he's vainly trying to find any part of that left in me…any part at all…but he can't. And he hates it. I'm a shell…a ghost…dead for all intents and purposes. It's like he's already lost me before I'm actually gone…and I hate the fact that he might think that. It's almost enough to get me going again…but then it all attacks me. Why try to live anymore? "No Day but Today" was Mimi's message…and yet the weight it carried died with her. There's no point anymore…there's Mark…but shamefully he's not enough. I can't…start living and laughing again…for maybe the month I have left. It seems so pointless…I can't…I just can't. I don't like it…but I can't. Still…some remorse forces it's way to the surface. He should at least know how sorry I am.

"Mark…"

He looks up, probably startled that I'm initiating conversation. His eyes are guarded, the baring of his soul is over with and he's shielded himself again. Still…I have to try.

"I'm sorry…I really am." There's sincerity in my voice and I don't even have to force it there. There's even some regret that shows in my expression…more feeling than I've expressed probably in months. He knows what I'm talking about and he just sighs again. Standing up, he puts a hand on my shoulder, looking at me…sympathetically. There he goes…comforting me again…damn, I still fail at this.

"I know, Roger. I know."

It's all he says, then his hand drops from my shoulder and he moves for the door, leaving me sitting there…feeling somehow emptier. The sincerity dies away, the regret…and there's only…emptiness again. Emptiness with the sad ache. It's too familiar…the feelings being sapped away. Dammit…why can't I do this for him?

He stops in the doorway and looks back over his shoulder. "Take your AZT." He whispers, sadly, quietly, then he's gone. I don't move. I just sit there…sit there feeling a twinge of guilt, a pang of…heartbreak. I'm familiar enough with it…I should be able to identify it. That's all. Only those two traces of feelings and emptiness…the vast, swallowing emptiness. Dull, dead Roger is back. Cold, empty Roger who's killing his best friend, who's dragging him down with him before he leaves him. The Roger I would like to kill, to quash, to get rid of. But to kill him…is to kill myself.

I can't do that to Mark. I can't do that…so the shell remains. The shell I've become. The shell of Mark's best friend. And all I do is sit there and accept it. What more can I do, after all? I'm just a shell now…


End file.
